


Coming Home

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Community: 25fluffyfics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-30
Updated: 2008-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-10 12:11:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/99607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have no idea why I want to come back to you," Justin says.  "You drive me insane."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming Home

**Author's Note:**

> Post Season Five  
> Written for LJ's 25FluffyFics community  
> Prompt 23: Reunion

"I'm coming home," Justin says flatly into the phone.

"Yeah," Brian snorts. "Right."

Justin twists the cord around his finger and walks in small circles around his tiny living room. "I mean it," he says.

"I know," Brian says patiently. "You also meant it when the heater broke in your apartment, and when that guy from the restaurant 'deliberately' spilled the soup on you."

"It _was_ deliberate!" Justin interjects hotly. He can still see that little smirk on Gustav's face and hear that little fake _I'm Sorry_ in that stupid little fake French accent. And he never did get the stain out of his pants. "How many times have I told you that story?"

"Too many to count," Brian says dryly. He continues quickly before Justin can dispute it, or worse yet, relate the story yet again. "And you meant it when you got that bad review in the Village Voice and when the curator at the Adamson Gallery tried to grab your ass."

"Fuck," Justin said, "I hate that guy. So slimy. He made the Sap look like a fucking saint."

"My _point_ is," Brian says, "that you've meant it all those times, and gee, you're still in New York."

"This is different."

"Mmm."

"I mean it," Justin says. "I mean, I mean it when I say I'm coming home, and I mean it when I say it's different." He scowls into the phone, confused himself. "You know what I mean?"

He hears Brian sigh. "Justin, I have a meeting with the Remson people in ten minutes."

"Then I'll make it brief," Justin says. "Look. I've spent the last four years living in conditions that would make Mother Theresa blanch--"

"Mother Theresa is dead."

"Are you going to interrupt or are you going to listen?" Justin asks primly.

"I like it when you're bossy," Brian drawls. "It makes me h-h-hot."

Justin sighs heavily. "Nine minutes until your meeting."

"Right," Brian says. "Listening. Very intently."

"Okay, so. Living in a hovel--"

"You can't tell," Brian says, "but I'm wearing my serious face."

Justin flops down on the sofa. "Oh my fuck, would you shut up!"

"That wounds me, Sunshine."

"I have no idea why I want to come back to you," Justin says. "You drive me insane."

"But you looove me."

Justin smiles into the phone despite his best intentions, and shakes his head. "Did Cynthia put something in your coffee today?"

"Just the usual. A cup of sugar and the spleen of one of the interns."

"Living in a hovel," Justin repeats loudly. When he gets no interruptions -- for once -- he continues. "In that time, I've worked sixty to eighty hour weeks trying to paint and work at that fucking restaurant with fucking Gustav so I can pay the rent. I have no friends because I work all the time. I have no social life, unless you count random blowjobs in the bathroom at the local pool hall, which I'm sure you do. I've had three shows, two of which weren't even reviewed. At the third one, I was crucified."

"It wasn't that bad," Brian says softly.

"Okay," Justin concedes. "Maybe not crucified. The critic merely pointed out that I was too young and too inexperienced and too naïve and my style was too simplistic and too--"

"I get the point," Brian says.

"And my point is… I agree with him. I can't put in the time I need on my art when I'm too busy schlepping overcooked meatloaf and trying to wash borscht out of my only good pair of work pants. Or when the space heater conks out a-fucking-gain and my fingers are so cold that I can't hold a brush. Or when I spend half my days on the internet trying to figure out how I can find a cheaper way back to Pittsburgh because it's been three months since I've seen you last."

"If seeing me is the only problem--"

"Oh my God!" Justin shouts. "Have you been listening? That's not the only problem! It's probably the worst problem, but there's a shitload of others just lining up behind it, vying for their turn in the spotlight."

"So," Brian says.

"So," Justin says, "I hate it here. I'm lonely and I'm miserable, and I can paint anywhere. So I'm coming home. And when I think the time is right, I'll go back and try again. But not on a full time basis. Never fucking again." Justin slides down onto his back, rests his feet on the armrest of the sofa and stares at the smoke-stained ceiling. "And you know what, Brian?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me."

"I may _never_ go back. It's taken me two years, but I've come to the realization that I don't give a shit if I never sell a painting. I don't care if one of my pieces never hangs in a museum. I paint because it kills me if I don't, not because of some misguided and untenable desire for fame and fortune."

For a long moment there is only silence on the line.

"Brian?"

"You're coming home," Brian says quietly.

"I was going to ask if you could meet me at the airport," Justin says. "I picked up my last paycheque from the restaurant today, and I've already got my plane ticket. I'm going to ship my paintings home, so I'll only have my clothes. I'm leaving everything else behind."

"What time?" Brian asks.

"The flight leaves at nine-thirty tonight," Justin says, "so I should be in by eleven."

"You couldn't find anything sooner?"

And Justin laughs. "We can be at Britin within an hour. And tonight, I can sleep with you in our bed--

"There won't be much sleeping going on, Sunshine."

"--and tomorrow we can have breakfast at the diner, and in the afternoon I can meet with Michael and have a face to face meeting about _Rage_ for once, and--"

"I love you," Brian says.

Justin blinks, once, and beams up at the ceiling. After months of internal debate, he finally feels free.

"I love you too, Brian," he says. "And I'm coming home. To stay."


End file.
